


Graveyard of Buried Hopes

by BrittaTheBest



Category: Anne with an E (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Lesbian Diana Barry, Post-Canon, Referenced Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-28
Updated: 2019-11-28
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:15:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21592918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrittaTheBest/pseuds/BrittaTheBest
Summary: Diana hadn't meant to hurt Jerry.A mostly stream-of-conscious character study of Diana during her first few months at Queens. Written as a writing warm-up.
Relationships: Diana Barry & Anne Shirley, Diana Barry & Jerry Baynard
Comments: 3
Kudos: 43





	Graveyard of Buried Hopes

Diana hadn't meant to hurt Jerry.

It wasn't like she had gone into their dalliance intending to break his heart. She hadn't had any part in its beginnings. Jerry had always flirted with her, and yes, she thought it was sweet, but she didn't think it meant anything. She didn't think it would go anywhere.

She couldn't even say the exact moment it changed. Yes, perhaps it was when he walked her home, but hadn't there been something on Anne's birthday? Had she just imagined it? She didn't know. The courtship was something that had happened to her, not something she had been involved with.

But that was an excuse, she knew. _She_ had said yes. _She_ had gone with him.

_She_ had kissed _him_.

The thought made her stomach grind and churn, though she didn't know why. Every time she remembered all that had happened, every piece of home, every casual comment from Anne, she felt sick to her stomach. She remembered Jerry's face. The feel of his rough hands. How happy he looked when she kissed him. How desolate he looked when she broke it off. It made her sick, all of it, and she would shudder and push the thoughts away.

It weighed on her heart heavily, a dark cloud over those exciting first few months at Queens. Four times she tried to write to him, but her words always sounded too condescending or too proud, patronising or distant. She couldn't strike the balance. Nothing sounded _right_. She once considered asking Anne for assistance, but was desperately afraid of reminding her of their fight. It hadn't been brought up since her apology, and her chest burned to think that Anne still thought those things about her, that she didn't truly understand but had just chosen to forgive her. And who was to say that she was wrong?

But there was something else besides that. An idea, a feeling, a hole that burned somewhere in her mind or throat or chest, constantly moving because if she got too close to the edge she felt she would fall into it and never be able to climb out. It was the shape of something that she couldn't see, that burned her when she touched it. And it was something to do with Anne.

It came over her as an all-consuming numbness when Anne flung herself across her bed in ecstasy and described the florid details of Gilbert's latest love letter, or a high ringing in her ears when they sat studying together and Anne would catch her eye and smile. Anne talked about everything happening in her life, about news from Avonlea, about her classes and new friends, but it seemed to Diana that she talked about Gilbert the most. She would sigh and giggle and even tear up, and Diana so badly wanted to be happy for her, because that is what a good friend would do. She tried to ask questions, to look enthused, but every time the subject came up the sickness returned.

It made her think of Jerry. And it made the great black hole inside of her twist and roil.

Anne was a good friend too, of course. She always asked about Diana too. She asked about her own classes, and about her family. If she noticed Diana's reticence, she didn't comment on it. She was in the happiest time of her life, and naturally assumed the same of Diana. She could not notice that she was miserable.

At night, after lights out, Diana would pretend to be asleep as soon as it was plausible. It didn't matter if Anne were writing a letter or still trying to hold a whispered conversation, Diana would stay as still as the dead. She would lie awake, staring at the wall, listening to the pen scratching on paper as Anne composed her romantic poems, and she would wait for Anne to pad back to her bed, wait until her breathing became slow and deep. Only then would Diana allow herself to cry. She cried because she could not scream.

She had been so excited to start at Queens, and wanted to enjoy her newfound independence, but she spent her first months there in a state of dread. Left with the freedom to discover who she truly was, she found that she was afraid of the answer.


End file.
